My Party Rules

I’ll admit I’m a quirky guy. My party rules may seem silly to the average facehole, but you have no right to judge me, especially if you’re invited to my home.

In fact, you should be surprised and applaud me for only having three rules for such an eventful life scenario; a house party.

Here are my three simple party rules:

Rule #1: Only 10 people at most are allowed inside my home.

My ability to multitask conversations at parties is limited. I would prefer to have deep conversations with a few people, rather than meaningless and short conversations with many people.

Huge parties that have more than 20 people are fun maybe once or twice a year in a backyard BBQ. But there’s only so many times I can say “Hey, how are you! What’s new?!” before I get stir crazy and want to punch you in the face with my left hand, and at the same time punch myself in the face with my right. You would get the brunt of the blow because I’m a lefty, but at least I tried to make things equal.

Rule #2: Don’t insult me.

A few friends came over and made comments in jest about my overall appearance. One of my buddy’s said verbatim,”About your hair…. I’ve seen better.”

Granted I had a Jewfro and it wasn’t well groomed. But I’m not at some business meeting. I’m in the comforts of my own home where the appearance of my unkempt hair should not be a topic of conversation.

People think that because I’m a raging jerk on my blog and social media they can just waltz into my living room and act the same way. Well, I’m tired of it. If there’s one place where I want people to pretend to be nice it’s my own home.

Rule #3: Don’t drink my good liquor unless I offer it to you.

Normally I hide my good liquor in the closet so those booze-hound scoundrels coming over can’t demolish it, but sometimes when I’m busy preparing the party or dinner with the wife I forget to hide it.

When the expensive liquor is in plain view to my guests, there’s always two or three people staring down at my $50 bottle of whiskey asking for a glass or two.

That whiskey is my post-work, stress-relief medicine. It’s off limits to guests. The liquor I place in the fridge and on the table–the wine, beer, and mixed drinks–those you can chug freely. But not the good stuffI’m not a rich jerk who can go out there and buy 12-, 15- and 18-year scotch every week. I have a frugal boss who forces me to report my credit card purchases every week; the wife.

So remember, the more you drink my good liquor, the more I have to use my credit card, the angrier the wife will be, and eventually that will mean fewer parties I will host because she won’t be in the mood.

Don’t screw this up for me. Don’t sneak into my closet looking for the Glenlivet. Just drink the cheaper alcohol.

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Written by Rel

Ariel "Rel" Mathiowitz is a neurotic, panicky writer who details his pathetic life stories and frustrated points of view.
Rel is 6 foot 5; however, he makes himself appear to be 5 foot 5 because he wants women to lust for him for his personality, and not his grand stature.